


Unfinished Business

by marqued



Category: Mafia (Video Games), Mafia - Fandom
Genre: Donolinc, Eventual Smut, Explicit Language, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Men Suck at Communicating Sometimes, Pining, Slow Burn, Spying, Unrequited Love, cursing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-08
Updated: 2017-11-30
Packaged: 2018-12-12 17:56:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,421
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11742189
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/marqued/pseuds/marqued
Summary: Slow burn story. Lincoln takes a well-deserved break, leaving his bosses in charge while he tries to fill the empty spaces of John Donovan’s absence by renovating Sammy’s Bar with his aunt. Until one night, Donovan returns, realizing he’s left things unfinished between them.





	1. Prologue: Surveillance

**Author's Note:**

> &_& Just rolled into Mafia 3 a few weeks ago, cant stop thinking about the perfect couple.

Prologue

August, 1968

John Donovan spent a few too many nights alone in his home-away-from-home, a blue van that held enough surveillance equipment to make every dirty little secret New Bordeaux held under its cum-stained stockings his bitch. 

That was, if Lincoln could stop being a damn Boy Scout every time a district lieutenant snapped their fucking fingers. 

Donovan grit his teeth in agitation. He was already cranky from the hot and sticky swamp-ass humidity of the Deep South. Down the road, he’d take a few weeks leave in Mexico and drown his soul with enough tequila to kill a man.

The hum of monitors slowly flicked on in the compact labyrinth inside. He had enough stolen equipment to monitor every inch of New Bordeaux, from the civilian community to the taps Lincoln had helped him place throughout the city. He glanced around. The printer had no updates. Air conditioning was still shit. Low lighting worked well enough to quell his occasional migraines. Toilet--ah, he still needed a fucking toilet. Pit stops at Best Oil would have to do. 

Hey, at least it was a break from his shitty ass hotel room.

Donovan found himself flipping absently through some notes, figuring out what mess Lincoln was getting himself into tonight. The blonde liked having a heads up; sometimes Lincoln’s reach exceeded his grasp in the worst possible ways, and he didn’t want to nurse the man out of another coma.

~~_ Monday night. Secure Barclay for Haitians. _ ~~

_ Tuesday night. Favors for the IRA. _

Ugh, the Irish.

He rooted through the van, swapped a few cables, and checked his headset. He didn’t directly trust anyone Lincoln personally vouched for. But after some cajoling and batting his “let me do my damn job” eyelashes, Lincoln finally agreed to bug most of their allies. 

_ “I don’t like bugging our friends,” the man had whined at him. _

_ “They’re not ‘our friends.’ I don’t care how much fresh bucatini Vito makes you.” _

_ “It’s his Mama’s recipe, you jealous fuckhead. Tell me the man isn’t soft on me. He wore an apron in front of me. Our relationship’s moved from tenuous mob brothers to watching him make noodles in a goddamn adorable apron.” _

_ “Jesus, I don't want to imagine what the next step is.” _

_ Lincoln sucked his fingers suggestively, grinning as Donovan threw him a venomous look. _

_ “First, the Haitians. Then the Irish. Now, oh yeah, let’s trust the fuckin’ Italians over cookies and friendship bracelets. You know, the ones who shot you in the head in the first place.” _

_ “Vito was  _ also _ fucked by them, if memory serves me right. And don't say getting shot in the head fucked my memory again, I'll kick your ass. You can’t give me a lead on an ally and then expect me to hold out on them.” _

_ “Sure, but you don’t have to let them hold your dick when you take a piss.” _

_ “Fine,” Lincoln said, his deep voice strained, knowing that this was one issue Donovan wasn’t going to budge on. “As long as you promise it’s for your eyes and ears only?”  _ _ Lincoln crossed his arms, deep in thought. " _ _ I mean. John. I trust you, but I don’t want any more spooks listening to how often I take a piss. It’s creepy.” _

_ “Wait, is it less creepy when I do it? Should I be flattered or offended?”  _

_ Lincoln chuckled in response. “You know what I mean. I wanna earn their trust, too. But I’m gonna lose that trust if you share everything with the government. And I can’t do this alone.” Lincoln gave him a playful wink. “Can't expect you to watch my ass for the rest of my life. Gotta cut the cord at some point, ma.” _

_ “Then get your ass back out there and hack some phone lines. _

Donovan scoffed at the memory.  No offense to his pal, but trusting the Marcano's got him into this mess in the first place. It was why men like Lincoln needed men like him. Working in the shadows. Pushing the right favors. Finding out which men hid an ulterior motive behind their handshakes in hushed calls in the middle of the night. 

His lips tightened until he found the right channel, checking Burke’s scrap yard before quickly remembering that Lincoln had a habit of taking a pit stop before talking up the gimp-legged Irishman. 

Probably took a sec to visit the younger Burke first. 

Nicki was one of the good ones, he had to admit. Lincoln's judgement was sound on her. Her crime dossier was surprisingly light for the second-in-command of the Irish mob. 

Donovan patched into her office and smirked as his intuition hit its mark again. Lincoln was already there.

He closed his eyes. The job was lonely, and it was nice to have a familiar voice close the silence for a spell. He’d abandoned any allusions of guilt for spying on his best friend ages ago. The lulling hum of static and the pockets of intimate conversation were one of the few pleasures he dragged from surveillance. It was therapeutic, savoring the quiet secrets.  

With Burke's daughter... well, it was adorable how the big bastard softened up around the ladies. 

_ “How you doin’, Nicki?” _

_ “Lincoln! Get on in here and let me see you.”  _ Donovan couldn’t help but crack a smile at her drawl. _ “Oh hun, that’s gonna leave a scar, let’s patch you up. Who regret meeting your handsome ass tonight?”  _

Donovan took a swig of coffee. Lincoln had a weakness for good ol’ rotgut, and a good-looking girl running a distillery should have been up his alley.

But a few tapes weeks back disclosed that Lincoln’s perfect woman had a thing for other women. He stilled mulled over Lincoln’s response back then.

_ “Where do you come down on it?”  _ she’d asked him, unease coating her voice. 

Lincoln had sounded ridiculously poetic.  _ “I… I’ve never had much of anything. Or anyone. And what little I did have was taken away from me. So if there’s someone out there, doesn’t make a difference who it is.” _

Donovan leaned back in his chair, casually taking another sip. The work had ruined any sense of boundaries he had left. 

After that moment--Nicki opening up about her relationship, Lincoln showing that he still had a long path ahead of him--Donovan had felt… he didn’t know how he felt. He sure as fuck didn’t talk with Lincoln the way these two did. 

And a part of him felt jealous.

They talked about their family a lot. Sometimes their love lives. At least, Nicki’s relationship. Lincoln was never in one. The teasing with always gentle, but she tried to get him to pull down the walls a little bit and give someone a chance.  Donovan had tried to; he’d encouraged Lincoln to get some cheap blow jobs in the French Ward, and the man had laughed and waved him away.  But  Nicki asked him to actually… go on dates and shit. Think about starting a family when the Marcano business wrapped up. 

It was a familiar cycle. She dropped a name of a nice gal she knew and he's decline. Lincoln had humored her a time or two, but ultimately made up familiar excuses.

_ “Don’t got the time, but I appreciate it. I’m sure Miss Caroline doesn’t need my shit in her life right now.”  _

_ “Oh sweetie.”  _ There was a pause, and some quiet shuffling like she was leaning in for a closer look. _ “You got that look again. I know that look.” _

More shuffling. Probably Lincoln crossing his arms. Followed by boot steps. He was pacing.

_ “You can’t wait forever. You should tell him how you feel.” _ Nicki’s voice was warm. 

Donovan almost fell out of his chair. 

_ “Nicki.”  _ Lincoln’s tone was annoyed, but not dismissive. 

What had he missed? Not that it mattered, but Donovan thought he knew the man better than the Lord Almighty, from the way he grunted with satisfaction when he sunk a knife into a man’s ribs to the secret drawings he’d made of his plans to renovate Sammy’s someday. 

Keeping this secret wrapped under his belt had taken some serious fucking talent. A piece of him was annoyed that Lincoln didn’t trust him.

Shit, he would have suggested other acquaintances for the blowjobs. He knew a sarcastic Cuban who could suck like a fucking vacuum cleaner.

Donovan leaned in closer and gently turned the knob to raise the volume. She continued.

_ “Hell, with how much he keeps an eye on you, he probably already knows.” _

_ “That’s one way to keep me restless tonight, thanks. Why do you think I’ve kept such a tight lid on it?” _

_ “Well, whatever happens--if he does find out, and he fucks with your heart, we’ll send him right to the hospital for you. Cock intact, of course.” _

That broke the tension, sending Lincoln into rolling laughter. The conversation side-stepped back to work a few minutes later, giving Donovan a break to think.

He was fervently curious. Naturally. 

He racked his brain, scanning through a thousand names in his head, plucking out a few options as they flit in and out of his overflowing mental Rolodex.  __

_ Vito? No,  _ he wrinkled his nose. _ Are you high, John? _

_ Alvarez? Mayb--no.  _

Who  _ else _ was close enough that she’d say something like that? And the remorse in the man’s voice, like he was too close and too far to what he wanted at the same time. Some unrequited love business. Donovan had never heard anything like that from Lincoln. 

Who else was that close?

....

Oh...

_ Oh. _

“Fuck,” he breathed. His chair moved with a sharp scrape.

He looked down, realizing he’d been squeezing his first until his knuckles turned white. Heat rose up Donovan’s spine and he shifted, suddenly feeling confined in his metal cage.

The blonde jolted out of the van like it was on fire, sucking in some fresh air as he rubbed his face. 

Nothing was going to happen, at least at the moment. Donovan closed his eyes until the chirping of crickets overrode the hammering in his chest. 

He’d respect Lincoln's distance.

Piece by piece, Donovan crossed out the what-ifs that invaded his mind until he was ready to return to his work. Before the bugs flitting around the moonlight tore him to bits. 

Donovan slid back inside, kicking aside old coffee cups and burger wrappers until his nerves let him settle back into his routine. 

A few long sighs betrayed his broken concentration. 

The blonde’s fingers tapped against the counter in agitation as he scanned status updates from a collage of monitors, his headset hanging haphazardly from his neck. 

A few hours later, he had the intel he needed from one of Marcano’s lieutenants to call Lincoln over for a chat to plan the op. Tomorrow. 

_ Fuck.  _ He was already looking forward to it.

He rested his head against his palms, turning his head to stare blankly back at the surveillance tape he’d used to record Nicki Burke’s tap that night. Donovan rewound it, playing the pieces of the conversation he’d missed until he fell asleep to the soothing grit of Lincoln’s voice with a tired smile on his face.

He was where he needed to be.


	2. Visitor

1972

The long, summer day in New Bordeaux was almost at an end.

A wet drizzle beat softly against the rain-slick streets of Delray Hollow, lulling the district into a gray dream after a day-long downpour. Lincoln had spent the dreary hours working inside, putting up drywall and scrubbing floors until his arms surrendered. Occasionally, he had to shut his eyes, blocking out the visions of death… the spots Sammy and Ellis had died, choking in blood on the floor… the place where he also had lain and realized there was nothing he could do to save them…

The echoes that seemed to haunt this place were a permanent and somber memoir of the night that had changed everything. They worked their way into the small building’s bones as deep as the bullet that had slammed into his skull.

It was easier for a weathered soldier to recover from the physical injuries. He wore his war wounds, painted on his brown skin in a violent palette of scars, with pride.

The mental shit? Not as much.

He filed the echoes away with the other lists of horrors: the classified sins he’d committed for his country, the war he had personally waged when Sal Marcano left him for dead among his slaughtered family....on the floor he was dutifully scrubbing over, for the thousandth time.

At least the labor helped numb it for a few hours at a time.

Lincoln closed out the night out with a satisfying ache that burned up and down his solid build like a Molotov. _Getting too old for this shit, shoulda hired some kids,_ he grumbled to himself.

Sweat soaked through his standard-issue shirt, a memento from ‘Nam that felt right with the dog tags hanging from his neck. It wasn’t the most enthralling way to spend the weekend, but it beat infiltrating negro fight clubs and crawling through the decay of a drug-fueled human trafficking den.

Now _that_ was a stain that had taken a few days to scrub off.

Lincoln was enjoying the burden of freedom, leaving his district management in his second-in-command’s hands for a few days. He missed the good ol’ days, with Donovan watching his ass at every corner, already thinking three steps ahead from where Lincoln needed to be and directing him with that pure fucking confidence.

Three years later, and he still wondered if Donovan was on his hell-bound saga to investigate Sal’s contacts for conspiracies well beyond Lincoln’s pay grade.

 _I never got to show Donovan the bar,_ he thought with a twinge of regret. The twinge quickly faded as he shook his head. _Better that way. Jackass would’ve swiped a few bottles to keep him company during surveillance._

Lincoln trudged painfully down the steps to the basement. His personal hearth was gorgeously renovated with every luxury his racket kickbacks could afford, and it no longer resembled the depressing cellar he started his campaign in with just the clothes on his back and Donovan and Father James’ support.

The sharp clink of a glass in the darkness ahead caught his attention first. Then the familiar smell of cheap cigarettes.

What other idiot would slip past a cascade of shadows in Lincoln-Fucking-Clay’s homestead to make their way to… his top-shelf liquor?

Hell, he’d shot men for less.

“ _John Donovan, you motherfucker have better left me some!”_ he shouted.

A familiar longing returned alongside a quick wave of relief. A questionably handsome man, a bit thinner than Lincoln remembers, lounged in front of him, smoking and drinking to his heart’s content. Settled snug in one of his leather chairs like cat.

“Hey Lincoln,” the man broke into a roguish smile, delighted for some company after making himself at home. “Took you long enough.”

***

Donovan was the damned devil, if you listened to the harping Father James had testified about the man.  

The war should have ended when Lincoln went home. It didn’t. But Donovan had been there for him, doting tirelessly over target dossiers in the late-night hours, just to have them ready for Lincoln at the butt-crack of dawn with a tired smile and a steaming cup of coffee.

Hand-in-hand with Lincoln, while wearing a shit-eating grin and blood-stained cuffs, John-All-American-Donovan single-handedly helped him tear New Bordeaux away from the cesspool of criminal syndicates that had played a part in his family’s deaths.

It was no wonder Lincoln had fallen for him.

It had just been the starting point. Donovan had, over time, encouraged Lincoln to make his own mark.

 _“If you don’t provide the city another Sal Marcano, it’ll just shit another out,”_ the man had warned him, eyes lit with the complete subtle madness Lincoln had fallen in love with.

It was good advice. And Lincoln had taken it... to a degree.

But when all was said and done, Donovan had left.

And Lincoln had let him.

The blonde came to New Bordeaux to help Lincoln get his vengeance, and that was all Lincoln felt he could ask of him. He thought about telling him what he needed. He came damn close, and sometimes Donovan almost acted like he already knew.

But the words always fell flat before he could speak them.

And then it was too late.

The man was a spook to the core, always thinking, always moving, always several steps out of reach.

It wasn’t Donovan’s fault that Lincoln couldn’t fill that empty seat at his side.

 _Whatever this was,_ he thought as he stared at the ghost. _Just don't let it get to you again._

Otherwise, for a fleeting moment… he might hope to return to the comfortable level of disaster they’d nursed in New Bordeaux together.

***

Donovan drew a long drag from his cigarette, cradling a short glass of Lincoln’s bourbon in his other hand. He looked quiet, contemplative. Like had all the time in the world. It unnerved Lincoln for a moment, to see the mile-a-minute blonde crawling at a leisurely pace. Fuckin’ unnatural.

There were a thousand things Lincoln wanted to ask, starting with, _Where have you been the past year?_ Or, _What kind of shit are we walking into this time?_  

Lincoln just shook his head, reaching over to pour a glass of his own. Donovan was really there, smelling like cigarette smoke and a stale summer drive. “Did the downpour shove your tiny white ass into my arms on your way to get some tail in the French Ward?”

A loud laugh erupted from the corner, slicing through the shadows like a guillotine. Donovan leaned out sheepishly, drawing a hand through his wet hair. The soft glow of streetlights outside highlighted his tousled attire, another roughshod tan relic from his agency days, suit jacket and wrinkled dress shirt unbuttoned enough to show the bridge of his chest.

“Why, is your ass cheaper?” He responded with a playful smirk as his glass clinked against Lincoln’s. They threw them back before rising up to greet each other with a quick slap against the shoulder and a bear hug.

Lincoln wanted to breathe a sigh of relief.

“You didn’t tell me you could afford the _good_ shit now,” the blonde demurred at his empty glass, his voice wet with slight inebriety.

“Ain’t nothing wrong with ‘shine, you freeloader,” Lincoln said defensively, collecting the glass. He wrinkled his nose. “Could have at least cleaned up for my black ass. You smell like old pizza and despair.”

“Well, I’ve been on the road for a week.”

“Jesus Christ. Well, better you living in the van than that piss-stained hotel room you set on fire.”

“It’s a _mobile tactical center_ ,” Donovan corrected. He bit his lip. “Okay… the Blue Gulf did smell like piss and hobo cum, I’ll give you that.”

“How do you know what hobo cum smells like?”

Donovan kicked back with more laughter. Mock jealousy graced his gaze. “You go through a small basement reno and now you think you’re the shit,” he his head back, snickering now as he took another drag of his cigarette. “You have a card table down here. I should have stopped by sooner.”

“The project’s been good.” His eyes flickered down. “John.”

“Great, here comes my first name.”

“ _John._ Number one. This is really important, so just listen to me.” Lincoln paused for dramatic effect. “If you came all this way to talk about your spook bullshit, I’m going to need another drink.”

Donovan relaxed and gave him a mock salute. “I am a 100% de-commissioned, _ex_ operative, thank you very much.”

“They cut you loose?”

“Oh, it’s a story alright. Apparently the Agency and the, I don’t know, dozen or so security oversight committees, don’t _exactly_ appreciate it when you steal Federal equipment.”

Lincoln finished his thought, “And personally aid and abet one of the bloodiest crusades of a crime syndicate for a war buddy?”

“The pencil pushers _just don’t_ appreciate the art of a well-executed op.” Donovan clicked his teeth, as he stretched out both arms, thumb flicked out for a gun sight, as he aimed across the room and fired his finger gun at an invisible target. “Guess they’re not the ‘recreational activity’ types.”

“I’m just shocked they didn’t give you a cigar and a medal.”

“They would have, if I hadn’t shot a Senator in the face.”

“I swear to every goddamn corner of the bayou, you never cease to impress.” Lincoln’s grin widened. “Well, spill it. Did you get it on tape?”

“ _Did_ I? I got the master copy. I should have been a goddamn movie star, I was a fucking natural. Spend the better part of the year scrubbing the hearing with the friends I had left in the Agency. Except for a few hands I couldn’t pay off. Someone got to ‘em first.”

Lincoln let out a sound of surprise. “Well, I feel sorry for the son of a bitch who gets in the way of John Donovan doing his business...”

“Oh, I haven’t even told you the fucking punchline yet.”

“Those last men I couldn't reach, with cold, hard cash? Already paid off by some asshole."

“You don’t say.” Lincoln stared straight at him, taking in the severity of the matter, until the corner of his lip started to curl.

“You son of a bitch,” Donovan laughed. “I knew it was you!”

Lincoln broke out into a shit-eating grin.“It’s not my fault you’re getting soft around the edges, Johnny-boy.”

“Soft around the--according to my intel, you’re into that.”

“A man’s gotta have something to grab onto.”

“So you’ve said.” Donovan’s tone changed gears subtly.

“What?” Lincoln shifted uncomfortably, feeling a dread slowly fill his chest. _Had he slipped somewhere?_

“Nothing, just in a passing conversation I’m sure.”

Lincoln had a keen memory, a habit he’d built up to juggle the workload Donovan had left in his absence. They’d both joked about preferences, but Lincoln had been careful not to reveal too much. Well, he’d cracked a joke with Nicki about his type of man after she pressed him, but-

“You fucking tapped the distillery,” Lincoln said, his voice dry. “Son of a bitch.”

He stood up, arms crossed. He was lost for a moment on how to act, but quickly noticed the expression on Donovan’s face showed no trace of judgement. No repulsion. No annoyance. In fact, he looked strangely… curious.

“Well, where do you stand on it? You still interested?” Donovan was infuriatingly still, watching Lincoln from his chair with a quiet edge.

Lincoln paused, sucking in a breath of air to steady. His lips tightened as he flexed his fists in annoyance.

_I thought I hit a cap on weird shit, after that damn cult._

“What’s your play here, John?”

“No game,” Donovan said seriously. His eyes narrowed, focused. It wasn’t like him to bring stuff up ‘accidentally.’ “You were never going to bring it up, were you?”

“Jesus Christ,” Lincoln groaned. “Is no one allowed to have secrets from you, you dick?”

“ _Lincoln_. Cut me some slack. I can take a compliment.” Donovan chewed that over with a half smile. He toyed with his cigarette, watching the burning embers float and disappear.  “Well?” He held Lincoln’s conflicted gaze carefully.

“Well. Fuck.” Lincoln brought his hand to his mouth. “John, is this the part where you also tell me you’re dying of cancer?”

He laughed. “I’m _old_ , but I’m not dying.”

Lincoln’s tongue ran across his lips absently. Donovan had a decade and change over him, but that only added to his charm.

“Jesus.” Lincoln paced a moment, finally leaning back against a wall, surrendering a deep sigh. “Fuck, look at the havock we already caused _without_ a relationship. You really wanna make something of this now?”

“Then we wing it. We’ll work out the details later.”

Lincoln whistled. “Asking me to hide the golden boy of the ‘top wanted’ list in my bed is some pretty ballsy foreplay there, Donovan.”

“Well, it’s an added benefit if you tuck me in first,” he snorted as he unceremoniously kicked his shoes off, shooting them across them room with a soft clatter.

“Shit. I’ll sleep in the-”

Donovan rolled his eyes to the heavens. “What a fucking gentleman. I’m not your girlfriend. We can share the bed. There’s plenty of room.”

“Right,” Lincoln sounded unconvinced. He jerked out a thumb, pointing upstairs. “You can stay and help me, then.”

Donovan’s cigarette dropped out of his mouth. “You putting me to _work_? Already?”

“Bright and early, Johnny-boy. Drywall’s a two-man job. Also, you gotta earn your keep if you wanna keep drinking my booze.” Lincoln gave him a long look. “If you think you could earn your place.”

Donovan gave Lincoln gave a slow smile, his eyes ignited with the burn of bourbon.

“I can think of a few ways to handle that.”


	3. Wingin' It

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lincoln and Donovan start to figure it out.

The entire city seemed to be asleep, frozen in time, buying the pair a few hours of serenity that passed in a foggy haze.

The distance closed after more than a few drinks, poured between a few rounds of weak excuses like _“Not letting you rob the top shelf without me,”_ or _“Remember that time you almost got our sorry asses killed?”_ Conversation swayed languidly between the good times, the not-so-good times, and a quiet acquiescence of… whatever ‘ _winging it_ ,’ as Donovan put it, could be.

It felt natural. Neither could have explained it, if you’d asked. Like some missing puzzle piece that they weren’t expecting to find and didn’t even realize _was_ absent, until that night.

Their history was carved into the scars on their bodies, the laugh lines at the corners of their mouths, and the comfort that followed being back together.

The bourbon bottle eventually emptied, replaced with a dark bottle of paint water that Lincoln swore on Sammy’s grave was their “quality moonshine.” Donovan had sputtered on a swig, to Lincoln’s devious delight.

The blonde didn’t place any bets on making a real move. He tried not to take it personally, but Lincoln’s uncharacteristic timidness every time he dropped a flirty quip cut a part of him that he didn’t know he still had.

The soldier has learned how to keep people a safe distance away, no doubt because of the “luxuries” the deep South had afforded him with his blackness. Despite that, Lincoln never denied who he was, and people learned to accept that with enough time.

But Donovan had always seen beyond that humble layer. Knew what Lincoln could accomplish before he realized it himself.

The pair couldn’t have been more different.

When he put his mind to it, the spook knew exactly what faces to wear, warming people to his side… or bedside… in enough languages and power branches to cause an international incident. Lincoln was relieved that, when it came down to it, Donovan was _usually_ focused on rollin’ up his sleeves and crawling through the mud with him after wrapping up the formalities his natural charm had afforded them.

Sometimes Donovan didn’t realize the effect he could have, wearing personas as easily as breathing.

Lincoln felt a hand on his knee, feeling his face flush and quietly cursing himself for his clearly-failing poker face.

Other times, the damned man was perfectly keen of it.

Donovan patiently bided his time until a question that had been burning on his lips slipped out in a hot breath as his hand traveled down the rough denim on Lincoln’s thigh.

“So, have you ever…?”

Lincoln’s fingers dug into the hard leather of his chair, before relaxing and offering a flippant, “What?”

Donovan grumbled. Lincoln could be a dense puppy when he wanted to be, but of all the… he rubbed the pale stubble on his face with irritation.

“What the hell else am I talking about? Fucked a--been with a guy.”

Lincoln leaned back, analysing him, and Donovan could feel the warmth flood his body at hearing the words stumble out of his mouth with only half the elegance he’d hoped.

“Have _I_ , ever been with a--”

Lincoln raised his hand, catching the meat of Donovan’s upper arm in a tight grip. He focused on him, not sure if he wanted to let him continue to wander towards his cock. Just yet.

Donovan followed his direction, slowing down.

Lincoln gave a tempered smile, his eyes wet with the burn of liquor. “I guess your intel has its limits.” Lincoln kicked back sardonically. “Never thought I’d see _that_ day.”

He stood suddenly, interrupting Donovan before he could protest as the playful sleight, causing the blonde to stumble against the edge of the chair.

“You’re dodging,” Donovan pointed out, doing his damnedest to look smooth in the awkward position.

“I’m not sure if I’m ready to answer that, _and_ I think you’ve had a few too many, John,” he told him, shaking his head as he helped Donovan on his feet.

 _Well, that wasn’t a concrete denial._ Donovan reflected. _Noted._

“You always avoid the _good_ questions, Lincoln,” he said aloud.

“I guess I do,” he smiled at his irritation and Donovan could feel a pleasant knot twist in his stomach.

Donovan eyed the empty bottles, gauged his soused posture, and listened to the seconds ticking by on the mantle clock. “Are we turning in for the night, Linc?”

He noticed the quiet way Lincoln tensed up. Donovan quickly brushed the back of his hand against Lincoln’s, nudging him to relax. “Not like that. I’m wiped.” He rubbed his forehead, feeling the pound of liquor already threatening to knock him out.

Lincoln’s closed his eyes for a second, weighing his options. But he trusted the blonde not to push him where he didn’t want to go. He finally sighed and offered a hand. Donovan eagerly took it, and almost burst out laughing when Lincoln made a move to carry him.

“I’m not that sauced,” he said defensively, swatting at him.

“You smell like the damned distillery.”

“ _We_ smell like a goddamn distillery.” Donovan rolled his eyes. “Fine. Just. Don’t carry me like a fucking princess.”

Donovan subconsciously gnawed on the inside of his cheek when Lincoln cradled an arm around him to carry him. It was different now. He was always aware of how strong the man was, and he’d seen what he could do with those muscles when it counted... the ease that he’d picked him up and dragged him with only the slightest trace of effort.

Donovan wanted to throw caution to the wind and beg Lincoln to speed up the part where they got to maybe… well, doing a _little_ more than talking.

“Thanks,” was all he could muster as Lincoln effortlessly escorted him across a short hall to where his bedroom laid.

Lincoln chuckled. “I dragged your half-dead ass away from a burning plane. I can handle a few feet to make sure you don’t fall asleep and vomit all over my favorite leather chair.”

“Oh, it’s about your _chair_ , is it?”

He chuckled in concession. “Of course.”

Donovan broke into a smile before exhaling an excited. “... _So_?”

“So what?” Lincoln groused, immediately suspicious.

“Do you want me to tell you about _my_ first guy?”

Lincoln almost dropped him on the floor.

* * *

Donovan has swapped stories of picking up girls, sure.

Lincoln just hadn’t heard _this_ one before.

The curiosity was gnawing at him, but Donovan had gestured him to hold up as he fished for his cigarette box out of his pocket shirt pocket. Donovan was alreading making himself comfortable, sitting lazily on the edge of Lincoln’s mattress. He successfully plucked his last one out, admired it, and waited patiently as Lincoln drew a light for him.

“Thanks.”

With the cigarette dangling haphazardly out of his mouth, Donovan’s hands drifted down to his belt with a jingle. He laughed at Lincoln’s incredulous expression. “Do you want me to sleep in them? I thought we turning in for the night.” He fumbled with his buckle. “Shit. Give me a hand,” he murmured, the cig dancing in the corner of his mouth.

Lincoln paused. “Wait. Are you serious?”

“Your ‘shine’s making it difficult for me to feel my damn fingers. Help me out before I hurt myself.”

“Should have carried you like a princess.” Lincoln pressed his palm to his forehead. “Fine, lean back,” he ordered as he grabbed the end of the belt and worked it out of the buckle, his ears burning as he slowly slid it out of the pant loops.

Donovan closed his eyes, savoring the smoke before he slowly exhaled and watched it fade into the dark. He draped his arm over the edge of the bed to let ash fall on the floor. He sucked in a breath, before seeming to remember exactly why Lincoln was staring at him like horns hard started to grow out of his head.

“So. SAS.” He offered casually. “You heard of them?”

“Sure. British special forces.” Lincoln scanned his memories, confused at the topic seemingly plucked out of thin air. “Heard they had to get special permission to serve in ‘Nam.”

“Craziest sons-of-bitches I’ve ever met. And I’ve met all sorts.” Donovan shook his head. “In my earlier years in Nam, before I met _you_ and things got really exciting,” he flashed his famous smirk at Lincoln before continuing. “I was doing some standard work off the books, and they were involved. SAS wasn’t even officially supposed to be there, so they signed on as-- well, that’s a longer story. Anyway, it was a pain-in-the-ass to coordinate some ops. So I did what I could, even made friends out some of those grizzled bastards. But I also met plenty of less-accommodating pricks.”

Lincoln frowned as he started peeling off his own layers, piece by piece, down to his boxers. At least the winding conversation was settling his nerves. He gestured for Donovan to make room and the blonde slid over to make room with a cool smile painted on his face. Lincoln heedfully slid into the plain sheets, feeling his weight press into the mattress as he crawled in.  

Donovan waited a beat before continuing. “Anyone, one of those fuckers was particularly cagey. Couldn’t crack him, but the upper brass wanted some intel he had. So, I cornered him as he was getting ready to pay for some tail in a whore house,” Donovan gave an exasperated sigh at the memory. “Paid her more to go away so I could chat.”

“I gather he wasn’t delighted with that.”

“He was a little pissed, then laughed in my damn face, saying that until it went through the right channels, he wasn’t giving me jack squat.”

Lincoln knew that British beaurocray was just as bad as theirs.

“That would take weeks.”

“Weeks if I was lucky. Needed something by the next morning.”

Lincoln exhaled. “And you’d run out of options.”

“Oh, I had options. But I couldn’t kneecap the guy.” The blonde took a long drag on his cigarette. “Told me I could ‘suck his knob’ and flipped me off. Yeah. I considered my options. And well, **a)** He’s goddamn **_SAS_ ** so I couldn’t stick a pen in his eye socket; **b)** he wasn’t the _ugliest_ bastard I’d met. Not to mention, he was still hard as a rock, probably waiting for me to leave so he could find the girl again. So I caught him off guard by accepting his offer.”

“How’d you know that wouldn’t piss him off? Shit. SAS are scary bastards.”

“I didn’t. I was taking a gamble.”

Lincoln’s jaw dropped. “That’s a crazy fucking gamble, even for you.”

“Oh, the things I did for my country.” He gave a light laugh at the flabbergasted expression on Lincoln’s face. “Turns out I was a natural. And then some. So Uncle Sam paid for a hotel room for a weekend, no questions asked and…” His voice drifted off, like he was waiting patiently for Lincoln to ask him for the sordid details.

Lincoln’s brain was too busy trying not to short out. “Fuck, I think I need that cigarette more than you do,” he said as he reached over.

Donovan seized the opportunity as he passed it over, his face inches away from his. Lincoln felt his warm breath carressing him, the taste of smoke lingering against his lips.

“And this is why I don’t drink in the field. I get chatty.”

“John…”

“I don't need any info from you tonight, if that’s what you’re wondering.”

“Not tonight, eh?” Lincoln shifted his hips, knowing the thread-bare sheets were barely containing what Donovan’s candor had done to his cock.

“Honestly? I’d aim for tomorrow. Got something to show you.”

Lincoln rolled his eyes in response at his playful wink.

“Why, what’s happening tomo-”

Donovan braced the sides of Lincoln’s face, enjoying the feel of stubble against his palms, as he leaned in for a deep kiss, giving the man a moment collect himself before he returned it with ardent enthusiasm. Donovan kissed him like he was indulging in a dream, mouth parted hungrily, his tongue running against Lincoln’s, savoring the roughness, the taste, the exploration of kissing the only man he actually gave more than a half-damn about.

When he broke away to catch his breath, both stared at each other.

“Is that eagerness I detect?” Donovan asked breathily.

“Shut the hell up.” But Lincoln couldn’t contain his smile as his heart pounded in his chest. He flicked the cigarette to his ashtray just in time for Donovan to crawl to his side and pin him against the headboard with both hands, embracing Lincoln until the soft glow from the dying cigarette faded completely.

He panted slightly as they broke apart again. “Like I was saying, I’m not uncomfortable with... _this_.”

“Wingin’ it,” Lincoln clarified.

“Right. Unless I die of the humidity in this goddamn town first.”

Lincoln smirked in the darkness, giving Donovan a quiet kiss before pushing him back to his side of the bed. “I’ll see you in the morning. And don’t think this gets you out of helping with drywall. Fuck.” He shuffled into his side of the bed, until the long hours finally did their job.

A tired smile drew on Donovan’s face when he finally heard the soft snoring in the darkness next to him. He savored its presence until it lulled him to sleep.


End file.
